The Greek's Pregnant Bride

‘Show me what?’

He straightened his shirt, then turned back to face her. ‘I’ll take you to meet her. You can see for yourself why I don’t want my mother anywhere near our wedding.’

* * *

The car came to a stop outside an immaculate two-storey house in a quiet Athenian suburb.

No sooner had the engine been turned off than Christian got out, not bothering to wait for the driver to open the door for him.

The entire drive had been conducted in silence, Christian sitting ramrod-straight, only the whiteness of his knuckles betraying what lay beneath his skin.

It was a demeanour Alessandra had never seen from him before. It unnerved her.

That he’d cancelled his first appointment of the day had unnerved her even more; that, and the grim way he’d said, ‘Let’s get it over with.’

dread that she followed him out of the car

the door, lines all over her weathered face,

and walked back inside, leaving the door open for them

house itself was pristine, a strong smell of bleach pervading the

was nothing homely about it. What could have been a beautiful home was nothing but a carcass, sanitised

hiding her disdain for Alessandra, refusing her hand when Christian introduced them, and looking through her when

gathered together in the immaculate kitchen, where the stench of bleach was even stronger. No refreshments

have been invisible. All of Elena’s attention was on her son. She was speaking harshly to him in quick-fire Greek, whatever she said enough to make the pulse in his jawline throb. When he replied, his answers were short but measured. At one point he seemed to be the one doing the talking rather than the listening, his

twenty-five years, Alessandra had never sat in such a poisonous atmosphere

were the same blue as Christian’s but were like a frozen winter morning without

being raised by this woman made her skin feel as icy as Elena’s

eschewed any form of emotional entanglement when this

not appreciated then exactly how great